


The Last First Time

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many times does he have to walk away from her? This time, he's decided, he's going to at least buy her chips first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just get the urge to write a time-wimey, sex-filled, _angst-filled_ romp.

Rose stepped out of the pub and into the sticky-humid night air, the oppressive warmth seeming to suck all the energy out of her. She was tired, and angry; Mickey and Shareen had buggered off even though they were meant to be celebrating her first taste of freedom since leaving Jimmy I'd-Fuck-Anything-Once Stone. Her phone was on its last bar of battery and a taxi back to her mum's house was going to cost a fortune. It was not, all said, a good night, especially not with three cranberry vodkas and two pints of lager sitting uncomfortably in her stomach.

 

She stopped in the middle of the pavement so she could devote more of her brain power to not throwing up. Rose closed her eyes and rubbed her face with her hands, sliding them under the sunglasses she'd kept on all evening (there was no reason for Mickey to get upset and do something completely stupid and in character, like try to beat up her ex). When she opened her eyes, she noticed that a tall man in a suit was apparently trying to unlock a phone box and was very frustrated that his house key was not working.

 

'Oi mate,' she called out, a silly grin working its way on to her face at the sight of someone drunker than her, 'how much have you had? That's not your flat, that's a bloody phone box!'

 

-.-.-

 

He hadn't checked more than the basic details – air breathability, gravity, radiation - before stepping out of the TARDIS, more than convinced he'd put in the right details to wind up on a small, agrarian planet somewhere in the Kuiper belt. Perhaps, if he had, he wouldn't have found himself rudely shut out of the ship somewhere in London circa 2004 – at least, that's what the merchandise in the shops seemed to indicate. It was a rather large crimp in his plans. His hopes for the day had revolved around a really decent nap under a tree with maybe a harvest festival to round out the afternoon. He loved a good harvest festival with dancing and bonfires and some of those excellent little pumpkin tarts with just enough nutmeg.

 

The Doctor squared his shoulders and decided he wasn't going to let the TARDIS play silly buggers by taking him somewhere else. He grabbed his key and put it in the lock.

 

It wouldn't turn.

 

' _What?_ Oh, come on!' He shouted, slapping his hand against the side and jiggling the key furiously. 'Let me in!'

 

He sighed and took the key out to inspect it in the dim light of the streetlamp. It looked fine. Normal. Same number of valleys and just the right bumps. The Doctor narrowed his eyes at the TARDIS, feeling suspicion creep up his spine to curl around his mighty Time Lord brain. Why would she send him here? He liked London well enough – OK, he loved it – but he'd visited so often his timelines were practically a knotted mass, certainly too many to allow unplanned trips like this. Not to mention Rose, memories of Rose or anything that might remind him in the slightest of Rose.

 

Like her voice, slightly tipsy, shouting out: 

 

'Oi mate, how much have you had? That's not your flat, that's a bloody phone box!' 

 

-.-.-

 

The man seemed to freeze up at her words, his body going rigid. Rose frowned, going over in her mind what she'd said to him, trying to work out if she'd been horribly offensive and not realised it through the faint fog of alcohol. It didn't _seem_ bad, maybe a bit cheeky, but it was helpful and, given the sort of thing you might get shouted at you on the street, that was pretty good in the grand scheme of things. She shrugged and decided that whatever his problem was, it certainly wasn't hers as well.

 

He hadn't moved, not for the several minutes it took to plod her way through her mental processes, so Rose said, 'All right, on your head be it,' and turned her attention back to her phone. The screen flickered once, then went blank. She groaned and fought the urge to throw the bloody thing in the trash; its battery life was terrible, and now she'd have to find a public phone. And the only one near her was apparently locked tight, if the drunk man's attempts at opening it were any indication.

 

As if he knew she was thinking about him and the phone box, he turned around, facing her. Rose closed one eye, trying to get a look at him, but the top half of his body was out of the pool of yellow light thrown by the streetlamp. He cleared his throat and said: 'Look, sorry about that. I've had a bit to drink and my flat seems to have gone AWOL.'

 

She laughed, and he seemed to relax. 'What, does it get sick of hanging out in Islington and decide to try out Croydon instead?'

 

The man chuckled in return. It was nice, really nice, all warm and sort of dry – it reminded her, vividly, of a library with a fireplace, two leather chairs and long evenings spent reading. She frowned, not sure where the image had come from. Rose Tyler of the Powell Estate had never been anywhere _near_ a private library, let alone one with a bloody fireplace.

 

He appeared to pick up on her confusion because he stepped forward a bit – his tie was revealed, rust-coloured with white polka dots – and asked: 'Something wrong?'

 

Rose shook her head and brushed back the hair that had fallen into her face. 'No, not really. I mean, my phone's a piece of rubbish and I have to find a phone box. Another one, I guess.' She tilted her head in the direction of the one that had caused his frustration just moments ago.

 

'Oh,' he replied, and made a sort of “hmm” noise in the back of his throat, considering. 'You know, I'm actually quite technologically minded. I could have a try.' He paused, then rushed out: 'If you like. You don't have to, of course. In fact, forget I said anything.'

 

She snorted at his nervousness and took her phone out of her bag. 'S'all right. It's just a mobile, not the crown jewels.'

 

He walked the last few steps that separated them, moving entirely into the light. Rose was a little disappointed that he looked so, well, average: he had average, sort of brown hair; an average face she'd never pick out of a line up; and his suit, which had seemed a bit dashing when she'd seen it before, now looked drab, like anything a lawyer or businessman would wear. Apparently she'd even got his tie wrong – it wasn't covered in spots, just blue and red stripes, the type you could get at Marks and Spencer. He smiled at her, a boyish expression that did not fit in the complete ordinariness of his features, and took the phone out of her hand.

 

'Close your eyes. This is a trade secret,' he told her. 'You might be wearing sunglasses, but I'll know if you're peeking.'

 

She gave a half-laugh at his seriousness, but closed her eyes – even going as far as to cover them with her hands. At the very edge of her hearing she thought she heard something, maybe a whirring noise or a pulse, but it was over too quickly for her to pick it. She definitely heard the _snap_ of the battery case as he put it back on. 'All done?'

 

'Just about,' he said. She imagined he had his tongue pressed against his teeth in concentration. 'There. You should have another hour or so of battery life.'

 

Rose opened her eyes and took back her phone. It was on and ready to use, just as he said. She looked at his face and nearly laughed at the smug smile he had, the way it complemented the overly casual hands in his pockets. 'You're brilliant. And full of it. But brilliant,' she said, dialling the number for a taxi company.

 

-.-.-

 

Oh, this was a bad idea. A really bad idea. The worst idea, really, and he was no stranger to meddling where he shouldn't and getting all mixed up in events. He flicked a glance at the TARDIS but she was giving him the equivalent of the cold shoulder: she was on emergency power and was ignoring any attempts to communicate with her. She'd already said enough, anyway, with the deluge of horrific images she'd sent to him over their telepathic link. Images of this slightly tipsy, slightly vulnerable Rose Tyler meeting a myriad of violent and bloody ends: stepping off the kerb and being hit by a car; slipping in the bathroom and cracking her skull; having her stomach pumped in the early hours of the morning but it being too late; a terrifying montage of men who wished her harm in such inventive ways he nearly swore off the human race as a whole. He'd scrambled at the timelines he could see – not nearly as many as the TARDIS, but usually far more plausible – and he'd seen the paradoxes he'd imagined would be there, but he also saw many occasions of only faint confusion on Rose's face when he regenerated, no more than he'd expect from being confronted with the process for the first time. He forced himself to suffer through at least twenty iterations that ended with the awful scene on the beach with her in his clone's arms and his hearts breaking before deciding that _maybe_ , _perhaps_ , just _possibly_ interacting with an 18-year-old Rose Tyler might not cause the universe to implode.

 

The TARDIS had hummed happily and sent him one last image, that of himself curled around Rose in her childhood bedroom, covered in a tatty old quilt and not much else. His eyes had widened and he'd felt his stomach drop, his body not reacting well to arousal and foreboding and anticipation so keen it hurt like a blade. His ship had promptly powered down at that point, and he had turned around to face the best/worst scenario time and space could have cooked up for him.

 

Rose was now on the phone and he watched her, greedily. He was surprised at how she didn't seem young to him; in fact, she seemed, if possible, older than he remembered. More worn around the edges, a bit tougher, perhaps. She was leaner than the Rose he'd meet in the basement of her department store and he wondered just where in her life she was currently. What had happened to her to make her body language so closed, to make her self conscious of the way her sleeves rode up as she talked on the phone? Despite being able to recall, perfectly, everything she'd ever told him of her life before he met her, Rose had been often closed lipped about certain subjects, and he'd never pushed her when she seemed skittish or uncomfortable. He'd thought there would be time – ah, the hubris of the Time Lord.

 

'You must be _kidding_ ,' she exclaimed, and he looked up at the sudden sound. Rose was still on the phone and when she saw he was paying attention she pointed towards the mobile in her hand and made a face, obviously intended for the operator on the other end. He grinned. 'Fine, yeah, I'll wait. Don't have any other option now do I?' She sighed. Her fingers twisted in her hair. 'I'll be down the road though, mate, 'cause if it's going to be a bloody hour I'm going to want to sit down. That's it. Yeah. Thanks.'

 

The Doctor decided “sincere” would be an incorrect word to describe Rose's tone as she finished the conversation.

 

'All sorted?' He asked.

 

Rose nodded, slipping her mobile back into her bag. 'Yeah. Said it's going to take an _hour_ , though, and my feet are killing me.' She fiddled with the zip and looked up at him; he couldn't see her eyes, but he could imagine that behind the dark lenses they would be big, and a bit worried, to match the way she was biting at her lip. 'D'you mind waiting with me? It's just that my friends went home without me, and you seem like a nice enough bloke and...' she paused, words getting stuck in her throat. She huffed out a laugh and said: 'And I mean, I'd just go _mad_ with no one to talk to!'

 

He was puzzled for a moment, wondering what she hadn't said, but then, like a flash, it came to him: she was _scared_. Well, maybe not scared-scared, but definitely wary of being alone in a dodgy part of town, just after midnight. It was _jarring_ to come to that conclusion: the Rose he remembered wouldn't have thought twice about waiting alone, even on an alien planet on the brink of civil war. The Doctor checked his watch – pretended to, at least – and acted as if he was considering her request; it wouldn't do to have Rose think he was _too_ eager, otherwise she might get the wrong idea. (A part of him wondered just how wrong that idea would be, given the last thing the TARDIS had sent him. He squashed that tiny voice quite ruthlessly). 

 

'Yeah, I think I might be able to spare an hour. You know,' he added, with a sniff, 'since you asked so nicely.'

 

Rose flashed him her brightest smile. 'I'm a regular charmer, me.' She held out her hand. 'M'Rose Tyler, by the way.'

 

-.-.-

 

He shook her hand. 'Nice to meet you, Rose. I'm John Smith.'

 

She grinned, catching her tongue between her teeth. 'What, were your parents allergic to originality?'

 

John made a sound of mock outrage. 'I'd have you know that I come from a long line of “John Smiths”, thank you very much. All of us bland and completely forgettable.'

 

Rose rolled her eyes, enjoying herself all the same. She felt better now that she had a ride organised, and someone to keep the creeps away. Plus, John was skinny enough that if he tried anything, she'd have him on his back before he knew what hit him. 'All right, Mr Forgettable. I said I'd wait for the taxi down the road. I saw a cafe still open and I could just murder some chips.'

 

John's expression seemed to falter a tad at the mention of chips, going a bit sad, his mouth turning down at the corners. It was only for a moment, and then he was nodding, half-smiling again. 'Sounds good. Lead on!'

 

The street wasn't empty, not with all the pubs lining it, but it was nowhere near closing time so there was more than enough space between the clumps of people lingering on the pavement to make their way through. Without thinking, Rose extended her hand towards John and he sent her an unreadable look before taking it, squeezing gently as if to test the connection between them. She squeezed back to reassure him, amused and a little touched at the hesitancy in the man. At times he came across as so unsure of himself; other times, he was the very picture of arrogance. Jimmy, now Jimmy had thought he'd known everything. Rose had loved that about him once, loved his confidence and certainty. It was such a contrast to Mickey, who deferred to her in all matters large and small, that it was no wonder she'd fallen for it, and fallen for him.

 

She pushed thoughts of Jimmy away. She was likely to become maudlin if she started thinking about him now.

 

Light spilled out from the huge windows of the cafe, creating harsh, well-defined blocks of white on the uneven concrete outside. Rose tugged on John's hand and drew him in through the open door, glad for her sunglasses that protected her eyes from hurting in the bright glare.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, angst, angst!

The Doctor let Rose drag him into the cafe. They entered through an open doorway, pushing through the heavy plastic strips meant to keep flies away. He thought the place was brilliant, really, with its crinkled wallpaper stained with cigarette smoke and the brown chairs bolted to the floor. A real British cafe. Next to him, Rose took a deep sniff, and so did he, but where she likely only smelt chips, he could smell stale sweat and diluted bleach and old grease. It wasn't bad — it's hard for scents to be bad when you can smell so many of them, they just wind up as “interesting” - but the familiar combination, the one labelled in his brain as “London Chippy with Rose Tyler” punched him in the gut all the same. For a second he wished desperately that he had an entire lifetime to waste on mundane, inconsequential moments like this, ones where he waited with Rose in a too-hot room for a middle-aged woman to take their order.   
  
    
  
'Mmm, I really fancy chips. How 'bout you?' Rose asked, looking up at him. She seemed oblivious to the fact that she'd already mentioned a preference on the street, and the Doctor wasn't about to remind her and come across as pedantic — she still had years left to experience that particular trait of his. Her sunglasses slid back down the bridge of her nose from gravity, and he was vaguely disappointed he had missed the chance to push them back himself. He tried to remember that he had no right to touch her, but it was difficult.   
  
    
  
'Oh,  _definitely_ ,' he enthused. The Doctor pulled his left hand out of his pocket, bringing out a wad of wrinkled bank notes. His right was still firmly in Rose's and he'd chop it off (again) rather than let go any earlier than he had to. He was mildly surprised, as much as he ever was, that he actually had local currency on him, but there was a certain rightness about being able to pay her back for the original chips. Particularly since he was doing it  _before_ she ever paid for them. Very timey-wimey. Very them.   
  
    
  
He surreptitiously checked that the notes had the right Queen on them. Nothing worse than trying to pass off ones with Good Old Bessie III on them in 21st Century London.   
  
    
  
'Can I help you, love?' The woman asked. She sounded as tired as she looked.   
  
    
  
The Doctor glanced at Rose, who seemed to have wilted a bit in the heat of the cafe, and then back to the server. 'Oh, it'll be chips for us. A massive plate, thanks,' he said, gesturing wildly to indicate the size he was after. 'And oh, buckets of tea. Some water, too.'   
  
    
  
She appeared unimpressed, but took his order and told them to take a seat anyway. They found a booth near the back and slid on to the seats — the vinyl was shredded at the corners, with bits of the stuffing poking through. Rose slouched down almost immediately, resting her head on her arms, her hair falling all over the table despite the fact an earlier customer had spilt salt across it. He glanced nervously at the light above him; his telepathy could fuzz his features in Rose's mind, enough to make memories of his face and body hard to recall, but any help along the way was more than welcome. It was too bright, he decided, so he aimed his sonic screwdriver at the ceiling and was rewarded with a violent  _pop_  as the bulb died. Rose scrunched up her nose and sent an irritated look at the malfunctioning light, but then settled back down.   
  
    
  
Now his face was obscured, he went back to watching her, glad that the shadows hid his identity and his avid interest. Oh, she was beautiful. In the years they'd been separated he'd built her up in his mind, he knew that, but somehow the reality of her was better than anything he could ever dream. Even in this messy, over-the-top way, she was perfect. Her hair was less vibrant, with more of her dark roots showing, and he restrained himself from testing one of the strands for strength and flexibility: a stranger does not, traditionally, examine another stranger's hair for malnutrition. At least, not without getting informed consent first.   
  
    
  
He sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the lumpy seat, not at all happy with the conclusions his clever (too clever) brain was coming to. Rose was wearing more make up than he'd ever seen her wear. He wanted to believe it was just a young person thing, something terribly fashionable, maybe, but he wasn't convinced. The Doctor could tell that she'd wiped off her lipstick at some point, whether through a swipe of a napkin or some other (more interesting, yet jealousy-inducing) method, he wasn't sure. There was glitter, too, brushed off her eyeshadow, and it dusted her cheeks. The lamp above her head sent small points of light reflecting off them, like a constellation or stars inhabiting her skin.  _Well, I say “stars”,_ he thought, half-amused by the absurdity of correcting himself, _a series of satellites reflecting a light source would be more accurate_.  _'Course, it sounds less romantic that way._    
  
    
  
The object of his attention stirred, sitting up straighter in her seat. He immediately busied himself with the condiments and napkin holder, pushing them about the table between them, trying to ignore the fact the salt shaker had the same general shape as a Dalek. He saw that Rose was about to talk, and possibly start asking questions, so he took a breath and launched into one of his own. 'So, where were your friends, then?'   
  
    
  
She blinked, made alert by the sound of his voice. 'Well,' Rose sucked her lip in quickly, then released it. Now wet, it glistened under the light. He tore his eyes away from her mouth before she noticed. 'I started the night with Shareen and Mickey, and that was good — hadn't seen them in a while, so we got to catch up an' all that.' She seemed genuinely pleased about that part of the evening, her voice warm and excited. Her face clouded over as she continued. 'But then I sort of got in an argument with Mickey,' the Doctor tried not to wince, 'and he left, and then I got a bit upset, and Shareen tried to calm me down, but she had her eye on this bloke at the bar — said she'd never shagged a guy with a mohawk before — so I told her I'd be fine.'   
  
    
  
Rose paused, then took the salt shaker out of his hands. 'What about you? You weren't drinking alone, were you?' Her tone was more than a little teasing.   
  
  

  
-.-.-

  
  
    
  
John ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. 'No, of course not. Nothing worse than drinking alone.' Rose opened her mouth to press the question, but he continued before she could. 'I had some friends with me. I let them go. I had to say good-bye. Let them do their own thing. It's better this way.'   
  
    
  
He said it in short, staccato phrases, as if it each sentence was drawn from him unwillingly. She didn't think for a second he was really talking about his friends leaving early on a Saturday night, but she wasn't going to start prying. Not until she had some chips, at least. Rose reached across the table and took one of his hands in his — he seemed so much calmer when she did — and ran her thumb along his knuckles. 'It's OK,' she told him, adding a smile for extra effect. 'You wouldn't have found me if you'd gone home with your friends!'   
  
    
  
The laugh that came out of him seemed choked, like it wasn't sure it didn't want to be a sob after all. 'Yeah,' he agreed, a bit thickly.   
  
    
  
She looked away for a moment just in case he needed to compose himself. This close to John he seemed tightly wound, tension straining his shoulders and making him stiff and brittle. Rose pressed her lips together as she realised where she recognised the body language: on the estate, you saw a lot of people like John. These were people who had been used and discarded, or so beaten down that they had to hold themselves together with the mental equivalent of gum and shoe-laces. They weren't dangerous, not like the ones who got angry and bitter, who lashed out at people smaller than them, or weaker. John's type were just resigned, sort of collapsed in on themselves under the weight of the world. The slightest hint of human contact, the barest of kindnesses, had a tendency to make them bloom, though. Rose Tyler had become, quite early in her life, a purveyor of friendly smiles, warm greetings, shared sandwiches on the play equipment and, most importantly, a hand to hold.   
  
    
  
She didn't know the particulars of what John had been through, but it was obvious that he was in need of something (someone) to grasp on to.   
  
    
  
John took a ragged breath and Rose looked back at him. He hadn't cried — at least, it didn't look like it; his eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. He appeared to have collected himself, nonetheless. 'Thank you,' he told her earnestly.   
  
    
  
'No worries,' she replied, keeping her voice light. Rose lifted a hand to her hair and shook out the strands, trying not to grimace at the feel of cool sweat on her brow. 'It's been that kind of night.'   
  
    
  
He nodded, emphatically, and she laughed. It was short lived, though, because John made a noise, a sort of muffled gasp, and was tugging at the sleeve of her left arm, the one on the table. Rose let go of his hand immediately and fought the urge to hide her arms behind her back. She glared at him, but the darkness of his own expression had her inching away, despite there being a table between them. 'What d'you think you're doing?' The question was less sharp than she'd hoped it would be.   
  
    
  
When he replied a few beats later, his voice was low, trembling. 'I wanted to know just how many bruises your jacket was covering.'   
  
    
  


-.-.-

  
  
    
  
The Doctor was furious — no, more than furious. There was a Gallifreyan word for it, but it didn't translate into English. The closest analogue was a string of incoherent noises that ended with every psychic in a ten mile radius getting a headache. Someone had hurt Rose. Over at least a week, if the healing of the bruises was any indication (and of course it was, he was a doctor). Someone had hurt Rose and she felt the need to  _hide_  the injuries, which was even worse because the Rose he knew would have worn them proudly, would have seen them as proof of a struggle or a fight, not something shameful.   
  
    
  
'S'none of your business, mate,' she told him, raising her chin and holding his gaze through her sunglasses (oh no oh no oh no oh no please not that too).   
  
    
  
It took a monumental effort to restrain himself from snapping “yes it bloody well is” because no, it really wasn't his business. He was John Smith, mildly drunk, who was being a gentleman and waiting with a young lady for her taxi. They were going to have chips and he'd walk her to the car and see her on her way. At no point was he supposed to investigate her arms for signs of domestic abuse. That was right out.   
  
    
  
Grovelling, though, was probably right in.   
  
    
  
He took his face in his hands, clutching at his hair; the very picture of regret. 'God, you're right. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry — I shouldn't have looked. I just... I don't know what I was thinking.'   
  
    
  
It physically  _burned_  to say those words - his throat felt raw, as if they'd been made of acid - but it was the correct response. Rose stilled for a moment, then deflated, losing all her self-righteous anger in a long sigh.   
  
    
  
'No, it's ok. Still not your business, but, I mean, if things were reversed I'd be askin' questions, too.' She gave him a wry smile, and he nearly beamed at her. He knew that Rose Tyler, the nosy one who could sniff out injustice like a bloodhound. The Rose Tyler too caring for her own good, who would watch her father die just so she could hold his hand and make sure he wasn't alone. She tugged up her sleeves. 'Here, have a look. Not like I've got to worry about anyone finding out, now. He's... I'm...' she shook her head and said firmly: 'I won't be seein' him again.'   
  
    
  
The sleeves were rolled up now, exposing her arms to his view. The bruises weren't as bad as he originally thought, though still bad enough: there were a series of small, rounded marks along each forearm, and two larger ones along the sides, most likely from someone grabbing her roughly. The Doctor could  _see_  him, the one who'd hurt her, could sense the timelines that had woven with Rose's own, leading to this moment where he felt full of incandescent rage and was entirely impotent. He could feel the shock and hurt that had filled Rose as the fingers dug into her flesh; he watched with her as a lean man with beautiful eyes turned hard with anger shouted at her, furious.   
  
    
  
Guilty over having peeked into her past, he absent-mindedly ran a finger lightly over a bruise, wishing he could heal her with just his hands. Rose flinched and he sent her an apologetic look.   
  
    
  
'Be careful,' she admonished, bringing her arms back to fold over her chest.   
  
    
  
'Right, of course. Sorry!' The Doctor screwed his face up for a moment, thinking.  _What works on human contusions? I know I picked something up for it recently — at least in the last 200 years._ He began patting at his suit. 'I've got this friend, you see, who, er bruises easily. He gave me this _incredible_  ointment — it's really, just, completely unbelievable.' He rolled his eyes upward and stuck his tongue out to help him concentrate as he mentally went through each of his many,  _many,_ pockets.  _I was in the 51_ _st_ _Century, so it should be near the top_. 'Aha!' From his jacket pocket he pulled out a small, metallic tube and handed it to Rose. 'Here you go. Should clear those up in no time — well, I say  _no time_ , but half an hour is probably a closer estimate.'   
  
    
  
Rose was staring at him. She had, in fact, been staring at him the whole time. He fought the urge to fidget. 'You are mental, you know that, right?'   
  
    
  
'Um?' He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly very worried about Rose running out of the cafe because a mad man tried to give her skin cream.  
  
    
  
'S'wonderful,' she continued, and he breathed out. 'You're still a nutter, though.'


	3. Chapter 3

Their order was called, a shrill voice cutting through the tension between them, and John jumped, startled. 'I'll just...' he tilted his head at the counter, where the woman running the cafe was waiting. 'You stay here and...'  
  
   
  
Rather than finishing his sentence, John waved at her arms and the tube of cream she held, then slipped out of the booth hastily. He returned moments later, overburdened, balancing the plate of chips on his forearm, the two mugs of tea in his left hand, and cradling a jug of water next to his chest. The two tumblers were stacked and stuffed in his jacket pocket, a leaning tower of plastic jutting out of his suit. Rose watched as he set the items down without spilling a drop or losing even one chip — quite the miracle, in her opinion.   
  
   
  
He doctored both mugs of tea with milk and had a teaspoon of sugar hovering over one before he realised what he was doing. 'Oh, um,' John flashed her a nervous smile. 'How do you take your tea?'  
  
   
  
'Like that,' she laughed.  
  
   
  
'Right. Lucky guess, eh?'  
  
   
  
Once she'd taken a sip, pleasantly surprised at the ratio of milk to tea, Rose uncapped the lid to the tube and started applying the cream to the marks on her skin. The ointment he'd given her was cool to the touch and felt amazing, sort of tingly, like sherbet dissolving on the tongue. John seemed completely absorbed by the act of distributing vinegar evenly to the chips, giving her some sense of privacy, and she allowed herself to consider the man in front of her. She wasn't angry, not any more: her anger had melted as soon as he had expressed regret for poking about under her sleeves. In its place was confusion, and not a little curiosity.  
  
   
  
  
 _God, he'd been bristling, then sorry, then ecstatic he could help. He has more mood swings than me and mum combined. And that smile, when he found the cream! Practically wagging his tail, he was!_  
  
  
   
  
Rose dabbed all the bruises she could see and then took off her jacket to get the ones she'd missed. When she caught John's gaze lingering a little too long on the front of her shirt, she smiled, a bit smugly; he blushed, right to the tips of his ears, and took a gulp of tea.  _He looks so soft and hopeful when he blushes,_  she mused, thinking about Mickey who stuttered helplessly when embarrassed, or even the bloke at the corner store near her mum's house who'd had a crush on her for years — he just clammed up and charged her half-price for milk.  _I've got to make him do it again — I bet he goes pink to his chest, too!_  
  
   
  
John wasn't a teenage boy, though. He had fine lines decorating the corners of his eyes, and the stubble on his chin would be sandpaper rough (Jimmy had only ever been able to grow a straggly moustache, which she'd found impressive when she was 14. Less so at 18). Rose wondered what he did for a living, or where he really lived — probably close by, if he thought his flat was just down the road. This part of town was expensive, and she could almost hear Jackie Tyler's voice in the back of her head, admonishing — and encouraging, in the same breath — her daughter for taking an interest in wealthy men. She tried not to frown at the idea that she  _did_  have an “interest” in John. Her mind wasn't made up about that. Not yet.  
  
   
  
All the bruises on her arms had been covered when she gathered the courage to ask: 'Is this OK to put on my face?'  
  
   
  
John paused, chip in his fingers. She could see his mouth tightening, the way his face became like stone. Rose felt suddenly cold in the warm room, worried that she'd offended him.  
  
   
  
'Yes.' His voice was slightly rough, and, when she glanced down at the table, she saw he was gripping a paper napkin in his hand, his knuckles white. 'Be careful. Around your eye, I mean. Won't do any damage, but it'll sting like mad if you get it in.' He lowered the chip and took a deep drink of his tea. 'You said you weren't going to see the person who did this to you again.'  
  
   
  
It was less a question than it was a demand for reassurance. Rose wondered, then, at the depth of his feelings for her, some random girl off the street. Was his concern based solely on the fact she'd offered him some comfort, had held his hand? Would he feel this strongly about anyone else? She'd be lying if she said it wasn't flattering; of course it was, especially after Jimmy, who only wanted to make sure no one else could have her. It seemed that way, at least, near the end.  
  
   
  
John was looking at her still, brown eyes patient, waiting for her response. She shivered a bit — she got the feeling John could out-wait the universe if he needed to.  
  
   
  
'I won't,' she said, and it sounded like a promise when she spoke it.  
  
   
  
'Good.' He put the mug down, then repeated it, as if to himself: 'Good.'  
  
   
  
Rose took her sunglasses off, studiously ignoring any reaction that John might have: fixing the bruise on her face was not about him. It was about her. From her bag she retrieved a compact and she flicked it open with her thumb. The mirror showed that the swelling had markedly decreased over the last day, the redness having turned into a faint purple smeared across her cheekbone. Rose had tried to cover it with a thick layer of concealer, but the puffiness was a dead giveaway, and so she'd tossed on her sunglasses before her friends could see her.  
  
   
  
Jimmy only hit her once. The sound of his hand making contact with her face had, to his  _very_ minor credit, shocked him and he'd left shortly afterwards. She'd waited until he was on his way to band practice and then she'd called Mickey's number, her hands shaking. All her belongings she'd shoved into an old school bag; there hadn't been much, not after selling stuff on eBay. She couldn't be slowed down by unhooking the Xbox she'd bought him, and didn't want to go over his mate's house to steal the new amp. It made her stomach hurt, thinking about how much better off she'd have been if she'd left then, after he stole the eight-hundred quid from her bank account.  
  
   
  
Rose squeezed some of the ointment on to her fingers and lightly rubbed it into the bruise, making sure to work it into the skin and all the way to the edges. The relief was immediate, making her flesh feel less tight and soothing the lingering pain. She closed her eyes and smiled, a weight having lifted off her shoulders.  
  
   
  
'Thank you.'  
  
   
  
John nodded. He'd glanced away when she started fixing the bruise, and was still not looking at her face now, focusing, instead, somewhere over her left shoulder. 'It's fine - don't worry about it. No trouble at all, really. Just had it in my pocket.'  
  
   
  
Rose could tell that he was still angry about what Jimmy had done, even though the evidence was fading quickly. She, personally, felt amazing: having the bruises on her arms and face had been horrible, as if Jimmy was still there in broken capillaries and damaged tissue. Besides, now that the marks were gone, her mum wasn't going to take a frying pan and go over Jimmy's house to have it out with him.  
  
   
  
She touched the hand that held the handle of his mug lightly with her fingertips, bringing his attention immediately back to her. His eyes were intense as they met hers, dark and full of emotion. Rose frowned slightly. 'John, is somethin' wrong?'  
  
   
  
He shuddered out a breath, clutching convulsively at her hand. 'I had a friend,' he told her, softly, 'and you remind me of her. A lot, really.' John's mouth tipped up at the corner in a sarcastic smile she didn't understand.  
  
   
  
'Oh,' she murmured. It made sense that there would be someone else on his mind. There would have to be, wouldn't there? To make someone like John so interested in her petty problems. Rose ignored the ridiculous pang of disappointment she felt.  
  
   
  
'If someone ever hurt her like someone hurt you,' he continued, words coming out slowly, but steadily. 'I... I would want to hurt them in return.' He rubbed his face, then ran a hand over the top of his head so it tangled in his hair, gripping hard at the brown strands. 'And I can't, Rose.' John's voice broke on her name. He shifted in his seat, agitated. 'I just can't. I can't do revenge, or retribution. It's not who I am. Not who I  _tell_  myself I am, at least.' He laughed, bitterly. 'It's not who I  _want_  to be.'  
  
   
  
His short speech finished, John hung his head. To Rose, he looked impossibly tired.  
  
   
  
She continued stroking his hand, thinking furiously of a way to draw out the man he'd been before, on the street. He'd been full of nervous energy and confidence and brilliant, lightning-fast grins, then.  
  
   
  
'But, don't you see?' Rose asked, after a few moments, leaning closer so she could see under his fringe. 'Anyone can  _not_ do something. That's easy. But wanting to do something, so much that it feels like it's gonna make you burst, and then not doing it? That's hard. That's what makes you a good person — a better person than almost anyone, really.' John looked like he was about to argue, so she pressed on. 'And I'm sure your friend would say the same thing, too, if she was here.'  
  
   
  
John's smile returned, without any hint of sarcasm. The years seemed to melt off him, turning his ordinary face into something so much  _more_ : sweet and genuine, and alight with excitement. The effect was staggering.  
  
   
  
She just couldn't believe all the contradictions in the man before her. The vulnerability and brilliance. Irreverence and stark seriousness on the same breath. The way he shook with barely contained rage one moment then sunk in on himself in complete despair the next. Her original opinion — that he was pretty normal, just like the people she'd grown up with — was rapidly being tested as she got to know him, or rather, started to realise how little she  _did_  know about him.  
  
   
  
A strange feeling curled within Rose. Not fear, not really. More like an electric thrill, a slight buzz of excitement at the bottom of her ribcage. The sort you got from looking down from the highest dive board; like waking up the day of your first date with a crush. John was new and overwhelming and not-quite-dangerous, just enough to make her knees weak.  
  
   
  
'I bet she would,' he said, finally, relaxing back into the booth.  
  
   
  
Rose stole a chip from his side of the plate and popped it in her mouth. She smirked a bit, and then asked: 'So, is there a Mrs Forgettable?'  
  
   
  


-.-.-

  
  
   
  
He was very glad he hadn't been drinking tea when she spoke. His respiratory bypass would have kicked in, sure, but that would have asked a lot of questions he didn't really want to answer. How could he have forgotten how flirtatious Rose was? How she was charming and cheeky and would knock her knee against his as they sat together? Right now her fingers were stroking the heel of his palm as it wrapped around his mug. It was, quite possibly, the most erotic thing to happen to him in a century.  
  
   
  
Since applying the cream to her bruises and taking off her jacket and sunglasses, Rose had let go of her armour, had let some of the girl he knew come forth. If nothing else,  _this_ , seeing her set back on the path to becoming a woman who would save the universe several times over, was worth the trip to London. Paradoxes be damned.  
  
   
  
She was looking at him, eyes wide — and oh, they were just as warm as he remembered, even for him, a stranger — and her mouth was curving wickedly. Both his hearts ached from the familiarity of it all.   
  
   
  
'Are you  _flirting_ with me, young lady?' He tried to go for a vague reprimand; it came out as incredulous.  
  
   
  
She shrugged, unembarrassed. 'Might be. Depends on the answer. Not a home wrecker, after all.'   
  
   
  
The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck. It made him look nervous (he was). Rose didn't need to know him very well to be able to work that out, and the widening of her grin was proof that she had him pegged already. It had him a bit worried about the telepathic fuzzing. By all rights she should think him the most uninteresting man in London, not someone worth taking home for a shag. No matter what the saucy TARDIS suggested earlier, the Doctor did not want to take advantage of her, not when she was still metabolising alcohol and did not know his true identity.  
  
   
  
At least, that's what he kept telling himself. Time Lords were rather good at self delusion.  
  
   
  
'Well, no, there isn't a “Mrs Forgettable”, as such. I was... married once. A few times, actually, but that was oh, about 450 years ago, now.'  
  
   
  
Rose huffed an amused laugh, rolling her eyes at him. She leaned forward and said, in a hushed, conspirational tone: 'Lookin' good for approaching 500, then.'  
  
   
  
Yep. She was definitely flirting now. It made him terrified and hot all over, and like he never wanted to stop.  
  
   
  
'It's all about drinking lots and lots of water,' he told her, leaning in close as well.  
  
   
  
He could see the flecks of gold in her irises, was nearly mesmerised by the way they seemed to shift and dance with every breath she took. His gaze was drawn to her mouth, noticing again the uneven red colour from hours old lipstick and the way she darted her tongue out to wet her lips, conscious, he thought, of his scrutiny. The Doctor swallowed. The sound was impossibly loud to his ears, even over the noise of the cafe with its whirring fans and sizzling deep fryers.  
  
   
  
Rose moved forward, her breath now touching his face. He could smell the faint tang of alcohol there, but it was definitely weaker than before; an hour or so and her head would likely be clear. Her fingers were tracing patterns on the back of his hand, sending shivers along his nerve endings — if he were human, he would have goosebumps across his arms. Instead, he had shimmering flashes of timelines, quick, dizzying visions of what might happen if he followed their paths. Rose's thumb drew a curve on his wrist, and oh, he saw himself licking the sweat from her neck. It was agony, waiting for her to finish the circle — he trembled, eyes drifting shut — and then the timeline showed him pressing kisses against her hips. He bit back a gasp and opened his eyes.  
  
   
  
She was watching him with great interest, no longer smirking. Her own eyes appeared dilated, and his mouth went dry at the thought that she was just as turned on as he was, despite not having waves of erotic flashes of the future infiltrating her brain.  _Just from me_ , he realised, and he knew he must have looked dazed.  
  
   
  
As if from a great distance, he heard Rose whisper: 'I think my ride's here.'  
  
   
  
The Doctor nearly groaned, but it was good that her taxi had arrived. Good that it turned up before he did something ridiculous like push her back against the brown vinyl seat and hike her skirt up, cafe setting or not. She let go of his hand so she could collect her things — her bag, the compact that she'd not put back, a few napkins just in case, and her jacket — and waited for him to get out of his seat. He was glad once more that he'd broken the light above him because his suit and all the telepathic fuzzing in the universe wouldn't hide the tenting of his pants.  _Jackie Tyler. Jackie Tyler in her bathrobe and rabbit slippers. Pears. Jackie Tyler_ eating _pears, in a bathrobe and slippers and she's wearing pigtails_.  
  
   
  
Rose grasped his hand again, leading him once more out into the street. The night had cooled somewhat, or maybe he was just more sensitive to the temperature after all that... hand holding. She nudged her shoulder into his chest as they walked along the street, still flirting with her body, still making him terrified she'd realise that she was hand in hand with a 900-year-old lovesick Time Lord. She quickly walked over to the driver's window and said, 'Just a minute, yeah?' before turning back to him.  
  
   
  
'Time for goodbye?' He asked, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. He'd had all evening to come to terms with saying goodbye for a third time, and his insides felt torn to shreds at the idea. Not even chips and tea could make it more palatable.  
  
   
  
She played with his tie, unable, apparently, to meet his eyes. Instead, she looked intently at his lapels. 'Come home with me.'  
  
   
  
The Doctor nearly smiled. She hadn't made it a request. Sighing, he shook his head and extracted his other hand from hers. He shoved both his hands in his pockets, the better to keep from clutching her close and not letting go. 'I can't.'  
  
   
  
'Come home with me.' She moved closer, looking up at him now, her cheeks flushed.  
  
   
  
'You've had too much to drink.' He said it gently. He didn't have the willpower to make it more forceful.  
  
   
  
'So have you.' Rose tugged at his tie, making his head dip down to hers. They didn't kiss, but they could have; his fringe was very nearly touching her forehead. In his pockets, his hands turned to fists. 'Come home with me.'  
  
   
  
'I'm too old for you.' It was a whisper — she'd drawn him so close that was all that was needed, even with the car's engine idling in the background and the dull throb of the nightclub down the street.  
  
   
  
'Yeah, nearly 500-years-old. You cradle robber.' Her tongue caught between her teeth as she grinned up at him. He was lost, then, lost as he'd been as soon as she told him to stop breaking into the police box (lost, just as he'd been as soon as he grabbed her hand and told her to run). 'Come home with me.'  
  
   
  
The Doctor closed his eyes and nodded, helpless. 'Yes.'


	4. Chapter 4

Her heart was beating so loudly, she was sure John could hear, it sitting next to her as he was. Out of the corner of her eye she snuck glances at him, not wanting to be too obvious about the fact she was sizing him up. Honestly, the man looked shell shocked at her proposition, and his own acceptance. Rose was surprised he was still breathing. She  _never_  did this, going home with a man she only just met — an older one, too, and by a far margin.  _500 years. God, what a knob._ She smiled fondly to herself all the same. He looked mid-thirties, really, though he might be a well-preserved forty, especially since he said he'd been married more than once.  
  
   
  
 _I bet he falls in love really easily. He falls in love and no one could ever hope to match his intensity, so they have to leave him or they'd just be consumed entirely._ Rose shook her head.  _Right, there you go, Tyler, making assumptions about a man you met just over an hour ago. Could you be any more daft?_  
  
   
  
She peered at him through the darkness of the car interior, taking in the boring suit and plain looks. He wasn't ugly — none of his features were distasteful, or out of proportion — but he wasn't pretty. Not like Jimmy, with his long hair and perfect teeth. In fact, out of everything, she thought only John's eyes were worth noticing. Rose could look at his eyes for  _years_ , she decided, and she'd probably never understand what went on behind them, not completely.  
  
   
  
Rose felt mad for taking him home. Her mum was going to have a fit if she found out. But the idea of seeing those eyes glazed in pleasure made all her objections seem insignificant in comparison. Besides, she could see why Shareen did it; there was definitely a dirty, sort of illicit rush involved.  
  
   
  
 _Should I say something? He's so quiet. I hope he isn't having second thoughts_. Rose shifted in her seat, her bare leg touching the scratchy wool of his trousers in the process. John shivered and sent her a look, obscured by the low light but as they passed a street lamp she saw a brief glimpse of his face: dark, and full of hunger. His gaze was so heavy, it seemed to press all the air out of her lungs. She bit her lip, eyes dropping to where their legs made contact. John brought his hand over from the seat between them to be placed, with great deliberation, on her knee. The gasp she made was quiet, almost silent; he raised an eyebrow, hearing it anyway.  
  
   
  
His hand was warm, not hot or damp with sweat, and the callouses — surprising, for a man in a business suit — were just rough enough on her soft skin; the small, light motions of his fingers sweeping across her thigh shot directly up her spine. Just a single hand on her person was enough to make her wet, God, how was that possible? She didn't even want to think about how possessive it felt, how she felt completely under his power just by having the weight of his hand on her knee. Her eyes fluttered closed, unable to cope with the sensation of skin-on-skin and knowing John's expression — that  _longing_ \- was directed at her.  
  
   
  
'Is this all right?' he asked.  
  
   
  
Rose's lungs remembered how to work at his question and she took a deep breath, pushing back the dizziness that had been threatening. He had stopped caressing her knee and his voice was all concern, a lifeline she grasped to stop herself from being swept under.   
  
   
  
'Yeah,' she croaked, peeking a look at him. John's face was open, just short of worried — there was no hint of the raw want she'd seen earlier. 'It's just... a lot. I've never - you're really good at that,' she felt her cheeks grow red and hot.  _God, I must seem so_ young _to him!_  
  
   
  
'Thank you. You've got,' he said, seriously, 'a  _very_  nice knee.'  
  
   
  
'Oh?' She cracked a grin, tension disappearing at his silly comment. 'Never considered it a highlight, before.'  
  
   
  
'It's clearly under appreciated, then.' John stroked the skin below her knee, firmer than before; it was less ticklish, less intense, but better because of it. 'Lots of lovely cartilage here, some decent ligaments, too. Not to mention it's rather aesthetically pleasing. Though,' he paused, his eyebrows drawing together in consideration, 'I have to say, the rest of your leg is a bit marvellous, as well.'  
  
   
  
John's eyes turned questioning and she gave a short nod in reply, at ease with him, now that she was in control; he gave her an excited smile, boyish again in the face of uncharted territories. He shifted his hand ever-so-slightly forward, his palm brushing against her thigh. Rose's heart seemed to skip a beat, then double in speed as his fingers rested against the inside of her leg — not too high, but the skin there was more sensitive, enough that she swore she'd be able to recognise his fingerprints just from touch alone. His thumb idly stroked the outside of her leg in long, soothing motions, moving from her thigh down to lick across her knee. If they continued this game for the rest of the trip, his wrist would under her skirt by the time they got to the Powell Estate — and she didn't know if she'd stop him before it went that far.  
  
   
  
'I don't do this often,' she blurted out, suddenly. 'At all, I mean. I don't —,'  
  
   
  
'— invite a man you just met back to your house?' John finished for her, seemingly amused. 'I should hope not! You never know what you might bring home with you. Might wind up with an insurance salesman, or a lawyer or even,' he shuddered theatrically, 'an  _actuary_.'  
  
   
  
She rolled her eyes and tapped his foot with her own. 'Are you? A salesman, I mean, or a lawyer or... that other one?'  
  
   
  
'An actuary. No, I'm not. I'm,' he paused in stroking her leg to tap it once, twice, then said: 'I'm between jobs.'  
  
   
  


-.-.-

  
  
   
  
Rose gasped, mocked scandalised. 'An' here I was thinkin' I was moving up in the world!' She peered into his face to make sure she hadn't offended him; the Doctor was struggling not to smile. 'I'm between jobs, too. Had a job, but my — the bloke who — well, he didn't like me going off and not knowing where I was, so I had to quit. I'll be looking again, now, though.' She scrunched up her nose in distaste. 'I was a shopgirl, before. Probably be one again, me without A-levels and all.'  
  
   
  
The Doctor wished he could tell her how proud of her he was. How he envied her strength and optimism. Was there anyone in the universe as brilliant as Rose Tyler? Even sitting in the back of a musty taxi she shone as brightly as a supernova, and he wanted to bask in it for as long as she'd let him. He felt seedy, suddenly, for having his hand on her leg, despite her encouragement, and he started to move it back to a more restrained distance but Rose frowned and covered his hand with her own, keeping it in place. The double contact was unexpected, and he was hit with the image of Rose arching off a mattress, hands tangled in his hair, his mouth hot and wet on her breast.  
  
   
  
'I'm a consultant,' he said quickly, in the hopes of distracting himself. 'Government agencies, mostly. Not at all interesting. You should tell me about your mother.'  
  
   
  
Rose laughed, obviously surprised. 'My  _mum_? What about my mum? Girl might get offended, a man asking about her mother with his hand on her leg.' She nudged him again with her foot; the jolt was enough to make their hands bump together, setting off another wave of timelines. He bit back a groan — Rose, on her knees, tongue peeking out the corner of her mouth; eyes wide and very, very greedy.  
  
   
  
'Does she have any slippers? It's important.'   
  
   
  
Before she could answer, the driver pulled into the Powell Estate and turned around to give them a knowing look. The Doctor grabbed the rest of his cash and gave it to him, hoping to prevent some sleazy remark from coming out of his mouth. 'Keep it; you were fantastic; come  _on,_  Rose.'  
  
   
  
He opened the car door and jumped out, Rose sliding across the seats to exit his side as well, joined, as they were, by their clasped hands. She was giggling and clutching at her bag and jacket as he raced them across the tarmac. It felt so good to be running with her again that he missed the entrance to her flat in his excitement. 'Hang on, hang on,' she hissed, doubling over with laughter and from being out of breath. 'You don't even know where my bloody house is.'  
  
   
  
The Doctor threw her a wide grin and she rolled her eyes. At a more sedate pace they walked back to the doors leading up the stairwell and to her flat. Every few steps she looked over her shoulder, as if to see if he was still there, still interested. That she was uncertain of her hold over him, when it was so,  _so_  obvious that he wanted her, was very Rose Tyler, and he felt ashamed and miserable. His stomach twisted as he remembered her windswept face, and the taste of salt on his tongue.  
  
   
  
The fourth time  _this_  Rose Tyler glanced back he made a decision and stopped walking. With their hands connected, she was tugged backwards, her shoulder bumping him in the chest. 'What's wrong?' She asked, turning around and looking up at him, clearly worried.  
  
   
  
'Nothing, Rose. Absolutely nothing. I just couldn't wait until we got to your flat to do this.'  
  
   
  
She'd begun to frown in confusion, but as soon as he cupped her face in his hands her expression gave way to anticipation, her eyes widening and her tongue moistening her lips reflexively. He smirked, letting a finger brush against her lower lip before adjusting his hands and tipping her head back, giving him a perfect angle — it  _was_  a perfect angle, he knew — to lower his mouth on to hers. It was a gentle kiss, so restrained; the barest of pressure against her lips before he drew back, causing her to sigh in disappointment.   
  
   
  
Immediately, he kissed her again, firmer, not ending it but instead moving to kiss the corner of her mouth. Somewhere, in the back of his giant, Time Lord brain he was aware of only one thought, one that echoed through his synapses:  _I am kissing Rose Tyler._ Rose dropped her belongings, her bag landing on his toe and the jacket catching a draft and getting caught around a lamp post. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she opened her mouth, sucking his lower lip and then grazing it with her teeth; he gasped and she pressed into him, her tongue sliding against his before soothing the bite she made only a moment prior. His hearts were pounding from the kiss, from feeling so much of her body against his own; he broke away, leaving them both trembling.  
  
   
  
The sight of Rose, panting for air, her mouth swollen from his kiss, would last him through until the end of his regenerations. 'We've got to go,' he said, voice hoarse. 'Otherwise I'll do that again.'  
  
   
  
'Why? Why can't we do that again?'  
  
   
  
'I don't know.'  
  
   
  
He kissed her again, hungrily. The force of their meeting caused them to stumble - he kicked her bag out of the way in his haste - but soon he had her backed against the pebble-crete wall, a solid enough surface to stop them from falling over. This much contact with Rose made the timelines flashing in his mind nothing more than supplementary tastes and sounds, nothing that could match the feel of her lower back under his hand, half his palm touching hot, bare skin from the way her shirt rode up as she clung to him. Rose slipped her arms around his waist, underneath his jacket, her fingers scrambling to tear his shirt out of his waistband. When her hips met his he tore himself away from her mouth, letting out a very manly moan; even through four layers of material it felt incredible.   
  
   
  
The Doctor pressed his forehead against her shoulder and he shook his head. 'I remember now. Why we can't.'  
  
   
  
Rose stopped clawing at his clothes. 'S'because we'll just shag here, isn't it?'  
  
   
  
He laughed, his breath puffing on to her neck; she shivered, wriggling in his arms. 'Rose Tyler.' It was a description; a prayer; an invocation. He dropped a kiss on to her collarbone and pulled away, holding out his hand for her to take.  
  


-.-.-

   
  
Rose stopped herself from turning around again as she walked up the stairs. She knew he was there, could feel his palm against hers, could hear the sound of his shoes — scuffed, brown leather, seen better days — on the concrete steps and the soft sounds of his breathing. Her mouth still buzzed from his kisses and her entire body felt prickly from heightened sensitivity; no one had  _ever_  made her feel that way before, especially not just with a snog.  _But it wasn't “just a snog”, was it? It was the best kiss you've ever had, Tyler, and you know it._  
  
   
  
They reached the landing and she let herself face him for a moment to indicate which way they needed to walk. John looked like he wanted to eat her. 'S'just down here a bit, yeah?' She said, voice cracking, gone squeaky, on the last word.  
  
   
  
Her fingers fumbled with the keys to her mum's flat, jingling loudly in the quiet, tense darkness. John came up behind her and covered her hand with his own, pressed against her from her shoulder to her hip. His mouth brushed her neck as he said, 'Let me help you with that.'Her knees nearly went week from the feel of his hot breath against her ear.  
  
   
  
Together they managed to open the door and Rose let it swing wide, the keys still stuck in the lock. Her arms went around John again, drawing him down into a kiss, wet and impulsive and messy (she caught a strand of her hair on her lips and had to break apart to remove it). With her eyes squeezed shut, focusing on her mouth on his, Rose could only hear John closing the door and throwing the keyring on to the coffee table. His hands were on her again, pushing up her shirt and running over the skin exposed, his fingers trailing around her back and along her sides to stroke her stomach. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and started pushing it off his shoulders; he made a whimper as their bodies separated so the coat could fall to the ground. The three of four centimetres of distance between them was space enough to cool her down, enough to allow the urgent messages her brain had been sending to reach her. Like:  _Christ you need to get him undressed now._  And:  _you have no protection what are you doing?_  The last one stopped her in her tracks.  
  
   
  
'Are you all right?' John asked, clearly sensing her worry and changing from passionate to concerned in a heartbeat. 'If you're uncomfortable, we don't have to do anything. No hard feelings.'  
  
   
  
'Aren't you a gentleman?' She teased, grinning up at him. 'I'm fine. I just have to go look for somethin'.' Rose fondled his tie again and kissed his cheek before whispering: 'Take the second door on the right and wait for me, all right?'  
  
   
  
He swallowed and nodded, his hand smoothing over his tie where her hands had touched it. She tossed him a saucy wink and ducked into the door behind them — her mother's bedroom.  _Yuck yuck yuck yuck. I can't believe I'm doing this. Mum is going to bloody kill me if she finds out._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, smut, smut.

The Doctor slipped into Rose's bedroom and leaned back against the door. He tugged at his hair and allowed himself a minute or two of utter panic.   
  
 _What am I doing? This is so dangerous. So unbelievably stupid and selfish and I'm not even going to stop! I'm going to let her have her way with me because I am the weakest creature in the entire universe and she feels amazing when I hold her._  
  
He took in a ragged breath and tried to rein in his anxiety. The timelines were fine. His fuzzing was fine. Rose was sober enough now that it wasn't like he was taking advantage of her, except it completely was, just not how anyone would ever imagine it. But he'd been  _so_ good. Selfless, really. Didn't he deserve to take this opportunity? Didn't he deserve just a tiny sliver of happiness before he died?  
  
 He'd protected her. Shown her the universe. And, even though he'd been desperately — well, anyway, he'd never given in. Never crossed the line that stood between companion and lover. To do so would have been a misuse of his position. And, although he'd since learnt differently, he had thought it would make things easier in the end when she left. He'd even given her a human version of himself to love and marry and grow old with, whilst he withered inside and felt more ancient than he ever had before, travelling alone on the wrong side of a universe divide.   
  
Now he had the chance to touch her one last time (it would be the last time, it had to be), to do and say all the things he'd wanted to when she travelled with him. He could pretend they were both just humans colliding on a hot, summer night, and it would be enough. It would be closure — that's what Rose would have called it.   
  
The Doctor stood up straighter, ran a hand through his hair to pat down the wilder parts, and decided to be calm.  
  
 He looked about her room, taking in the slight differences from the one he remembered. Definitely fewer alien bits and bobs, the sort of stuff he'd removed from the flat after Canary Wharf. It was stuffy, which made sense given she'd been staying with that bastard Jimmy Stone for the last year or so. The Doctor went over to the window and opened it a crack, allowing some air to get into the room and for a slight breeze to circulate. He was very, very glad that her bed was a double and not a child's single; he probably would have followed through even then, but that would have been one more layer of guilt he really didn't need. The bedside table had a lamp, and he turned it on. A few zaps of his sonic and suddenly he had mood lighting — good for disguising any slips of the telepathic fuzzing that might happen. Perfect darkness would be safer, but he'd rather leave now than miss the opportunity to look at Rose as she came.  
  
 _That_  thought made his erection throb, and he sent a disapproving glance at his crotch — no need to get overly excited just yet. In an attempt to think about something other than... than  _that,_  the Doctor quickly sat down and unlaced his trainers, then unraveled the knot in his tie. He put the latter inside his shoes and put them both under the foot of the bed for later. Rose's optic nerves were interpreting the visual information of his clothes entirely differently to reality, and, removed from his person, they would no longer be affected by his fuzzing; he had to hide them. He groaned. His jacket was on the living room floor. There was no way he could sneak out at grab it without looking weirdly obsessed with his clothes.  _Right, no point worrying about it now._  
  
The Doctor considered the rest of his outfit. He unbuttoned his cuffs, but decided against taking off anything else. Rose, he recalled, was almost as tactile as himself and would likely want to undress him personally. He knew he certainly wanted to undress her. Instead, he laid down on her bed and pretended he wasn't as nervous as a teenager about to lose his virginity.  
  
Thankfully, Rose soon opened the door, her face breaking into a shy smile as she saw he was still there. The rest of the house was dark, and, standing in the doorway, she seemed painted with stark shadows and golden tones. Where the lamp hit her skin, she glowed, beautiful and yellow and pink. Her feet were bare and she lost her jacket downstairs when she'd been in his arms. Rose looked utterly debauched in just a vest (no bra — and didn't that just about kill him when he'd noticed it in the cafe?) and mini skirt, her hair in disarray from his hands and her lips puffy and red from his kisses. It took him a moment to realise he'd stopped breathing.  
  
'Hi,' she murmured, walking into the room. She gave him a once over — eyes lingering at the very obvious arousal straining his trousers — and closed the door behind her. 'I must really like you, John.'  
  
'Oh?' He tried not to sound like his entire existence hinged on that fact.  
  
'Yep.' She sank down on the side of the bed closest to the door and crawled across the bedspread until she reached his body. Rose swung a leg over his waist and straddled his lap, pressing her bum against his clothed erection. His hands curled into fists at his side. She raised her eyebrows and leant over to place something on the bedside table, her breasts brushing his chest, her knee briefly touching the skin of his belly where his shirt no longer tucked into his trousers. A timeline snagged him, showing him licking his fingers, wet and warm and tasting of her. He let out a panting breath.  
  
'Why's that?' His voice was weak and thready.   
  
She grinned. 'I braved my mother's top drawer for you. I wouldn't've done that for just anybody.' Her nose wrinkled at the unpleasantness involved.  
  
 _Oh, that's just disgusting. Jackie Tyler's condoms. Wish I could blot that out of my memory._ The Doctor pulled a face and made a noise — “ _bleh_ ” _—_  which caused Rose to laugh and smack him on the shoulder. He grabbed her hand before she drew back and dragged her down for a kiss. It started as playful, but the instant he realised they were on her bed and there was nothing stopping them now, the kiss turned serious, absorbing. He explored her mouth, finding the unevenness of her incisors fascinating; he'd seen it so many times when she smiled, but never thought — hoped — he'd be able to trace it with his tongue, to mimic the way her own curled around her teeth, this time from the other side. Her mouth tasted of the salt-fat-potato of the chips they'd shared earlier and the tea's sweetened bitterness from when she'd sipped it in the cafe.   
  
That was Rose to him, chips in London and tea on the TARDIS, wonderfully warm and sweet but with an undercurrent of tartness that he loved so much. He kissed her neck, unable to continue kissing her mouth when he was being flooded with such emotion, and Rose shifted so she was sitting almost exactly on his cock, making them both gasp.   
  
'Why the face?' she asked, somewhat breathlessly. He was confused for a moment until he realised she was referring to before the kiss - a time he found hard to remember now, with his lap full of Rose and an aching erection. 'Thought you wanted to know all about my mum?'  
  
'That,' he replied, slipping his hands to her waist and slowly smoothing up her sides, 'was when I was trying not to shag you in the back of the taxi.'  
  
Her knowing “ahh” turned quickly into a moan as he finally cupped her breasts, resting their weight in his palms so his thumbs could daringly brush higher. The material of her shirt was damp from her sweat, clinging to her skin and stretching taut, revealing the effect he had in the clear edges of her hardened nipples. He brushed against them again, firmer, and Rose murmured something soft and encouraging.  _Rose Tyler is letting me touch her breasts. The world is not ending and I'm touching Rose Tyler's breasts.  
  
_ The woman herself had unbuttoned most of his shirt —  _efficient -_ raking her nails slowly down his chest; he shuddered at the intense, almost painful sensation. He sat up on the pillows and Rose tugged off his shirt before screwing it into a ball so she could toss it somewhere into the room.  _Oh, that shirt wrinkles up a nightmare._  Sitting upright meant he could wrap his arms around her and hold her close, kissing her senseless and letting his hands wander up and down her back, smoothing over her shoulder blades and caressing the skin at the base of her neck.  
  
His mouth trailed away from hers, kissing her nose, then her chin, moving down to map her jawline with his lips and a flick of his tongue. She twisted and pulled her vest over her head, letting the garment fall somewhere to the side but the Doctor quickly decided it didn't matter where it landed because her skin was touching his, warm and slightly sticky, and his hands were running over the bars of her ribs. Rose rocked against him, reminding him suddenly that they still had too many clothes on, particularly in the case of his trousers. As if she had read his mind, her fingers danced across his stomach — he sucked it in on contact — and started pulling methodically at his belt.  
  
He pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder, worrying the skin he found there with his teeth and lips. The Doctor's nose was surrounded by her hair, buried in it, and he breathed in deeply. She smelled like Rose,  _his_  Rose, all harsh chemical dyes and the artificial flowers of her perfume and the underlying richness of her own scent, the one that lingered in the TARDIS even now. His hearts ached painfully in memory, and he hurriedly drew down the zipper of her skirt to distract himself. He had a conundrum now, though, because he'd have to ask her to get off him to remove her skirt, and he'd likely die if she moved away from him.  
  
'Over my head,' she gasped, picking up on his hesitation. She had his belt undone, and her hand was pressing against him through his trousers; he jolted, stopping himself from bucking at just the last moment.  
  
Nodding, though he had no idea how he was going to manage when she was unbuttoning his fly like she'd done it a thousand times before, the Doctor grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it upwards, forcing her to drop away from his crotch.   
  
 _No, that's good, I can focus now_. He held his breath as he dragged the material over her breasts but it only took a moment of readjustment before the skirt slipped over her chest and shoulders and was off her head. Rose laughed — at his face, he thought, because he was grinning and feeling mostly mad at this whole situation — and  _he_  laughed, because her hair was a right mess and her cheeks were bright red, and nothing in the entire universe could ever compare to her right now.  
  
He fell back into the pillows, pulling her down across his body and they were kissing again, half-breathless, one of his hands on her hip and the other massaging her naked,  _very_  naked, impossibly naked, breast. Rose stopped trying to take off his pants, groaning and gasping into his mouth as they moved against each other; it was clumsy and brilliant, and he never knew when she'd rock against him next, making his Time Lord brain frustrated and even more aroused.  
  
She finally pushed at the waistband of his trousers, getting them down his hips and caught where he lay on the bed, moving backwards so she had more space to manoeuvre. The Doctor lifted himself up in time for her to slip them down past his arse, and then he was kicking them off, using his feet to push down the pant legs until they slipped on to the floor. Rose's eyes gleamed, lighting up like she'd won some prize, or worked out a particularly hard crossword puzzle, and then she was palming him through his pants, grasping his cock in her warm, small hand. His eyes rolled back and this time he did buck, not even able to contain the noise that he made.  
  
'How long?' she asked, and he struggled to make sense of her words as her thumb drew a circle around the head of his cock, straining the plain, white cotton of his underwear. 'Since outside? The taxi?'  
  
The Doctor shook his head. 'No. The cafe.'  
  
Rose squeezed him, obviously pleased. She leant in close, straddling him again and making sure her breasts and hair brushed against his chest — everywhere she touched him felt alive with electricity. Hovering over him, she searched his face, lips parted. 'You've been hard since the cafe?' The words were breathed into his mouth; he could almost taste the vowels. Spellbound, he nodded. She grinned, smug and secure in the power she held over him. 'An' all I did was hold your hand, John Smith.'  
  
'You do it very well,' he whispered, not wanting to think of all the other times he'd held her hand and had felt something he shouldn't have. All those exhilarating, adrenaline fuelled races back to the TARDIS, her palm pressed tight against his own, her breath hot and fast on his back. His cock twitched from the memory, and from  _this_  Rose's hand curling around it, and she raised her eyebrows before kissing him again.  
  
 He had to touch her, now that she was stroking him in earnest, if erratically, and he smoothed his hands up over her thighs, moving closer. His fingers — long, fine fingers he was quite happy with this go round — found her knickers and he groaned under her lips at discovering them lacy and damp.  _That's certainly...yes..._  Rose broke away from the kiss to not quite gasp against his neck. He watched her face as he touched her again, more deliberately, and saw her eyes flutter closed for a moment, her mouth growing slack as he pressed  _just_  the right spot. Now he knew where to concentrate, he drew his fingers up and down more rhythmically, despite his wrist starting to ache from the awkward position; it was worth the pain to have Rose make small noises, muffling her sighs and moans by kissing his throat.  
  
She moved, suddenly, knocking his hand from its position, and quickly shuffled down to remove his underwear. The cool air was shocking to his heated skin, but he mostly felt surreal, exposed entirely to Rose's gaze; the Doctor felt, for a moment, very human, very John Smith as he remembered from his time in 1913 — he was so vulnerable without his clothes, and so vulnerable in the presence of  _this_  woman. The smile she gave him was a balm, smoothing over his brief insecurity, and then she was taking off her knickers, the last scrap of material between them.  
  
'You're beautiful,' he blurted out, catching the sight of light brown curls between her legs. 'I should have mentioned it sooner - I was distracted - but you are beautiful, Rose. So beautiful.'  
  
She blushed — no easy task with the way her face was flushed with arousal — and ducked her head shyly. 'Thank you.'  
  
Letting out a breath, she reached over and grabbed a packet from where she'd put it earlier on the bedside table. She opened it with her teeth — and  _that_  was something the Doctor never thought he'd consider sexy, but here he was, overwhelmed by the image — and carefully rolled the condom over his erection.  
  
He looked up at her, not truly believing this was happening, that this was real. Guilt still lurked at the corner of his mind but it was easy to ignore with Rose raising herself up over him, her hand holding his cock at her entrance. The Doctor grasped her hips to help steady her, holding his breath in anticipation. It came out in a rush — housed in a soft curse — as she dropped down and took him into her, surrounding him with hot, slick walls.  _Oh, Rose_. She felt amazing, of course she did, tight and warm and better than anything he'd experienced so far in this body — any body, if he was honest. The timelines were running in the back of his mind, complementing this one by showing a dozen versions of her lovely face as she pressed down on to him.  
  
Above, Rose was still, her own breathing hard. She sat heavily in his lap as she got her bearings, but soon she placed her hands on his shoulders and gave an experimental roll of her hips. That was good, movement was good. The timelines suggested now was a perfect moment to thrust up into her, and he did; Rose's nails dug into his skin and she cried out in surprised pleasure. He took her breast into his mouth, sliding his tongue across the nipple and then sucking on it. She rolled her hips again in response, her head tipping forward to rest her forehead against his own, and then she did it again, beginning to find a rhythm.  
  
The Doctor tried not to frown as Rose sped up, the timelines in his head scattering away, returning to flashing images again as she sought her own pleasure. She was so urgent, her eyes squeezed shut and her movements slightly desperate, not smooth or mutually satisfying like he expected. He felt lost, not knowing when to plunge into her as she rocked on him; every second or third thrust brought him closer, but her rhythm was wrong, too fast and too shallow for the Doctor to climax.  _This is how humans have sex. Blindly. Scrambling for their own satisfaction without knowing what their partner needs._ _One shot in the entire universe to make love to Rose Tyler and I'm not even going to come_. He nearly laughed, but the thought was so depressing he couldn't.  
  
Instead, he chose to help her, biting softly at her nipple — she liked that — and slipping his fingers to where they joined. She was slick and so aroused, her wetness covered both their thighs, and her swollen clit was easy to find. Rose's eyes flew open when he glanced across it with his thumb, and he used a hand on her hip to guide her down right where she needed it. A second later and her orgasm hit, hard. He could feel it as her inner muscles clenched around him, and then she was shaking and trembling, a gasped “fuck” tumbling from her mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as she came, Rose shoved herself off John, spilling back on to the bed. _Oh God, that was amazing._ Her arm fell across her face, and she giggled, breathing heavily. _I'll have to call Shareen and tell her all about this. She'll never believe I went through with it._ Beside her she heard John sigh and move about – probably removing the used condom – and then he was back again. She peeked a look at him from under her arm, and saw he was looking at her chest. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was parted, slightly. Her skin was flushed pink, but there was a circle of white marks around her breast from his teeth. His index finger gently ran over them, and she squirmed away, saying by way of explanation: 'No, m'too sensitive right now.'

 

John nodded and sat up, his head turning around as if he was looking for something. She frowned. Was he just going to leave now that they'd shagged? Is that how it usually worked? Her mum wasn't going to be home until Sunday evening - not that she wanted John to hang around until then, but surely he could stay a bit longer, maybe have a second round if he was up for it. She grabbed hold of his shoulder and drew him back down next to her.

 

'Where are you going?' Before he could answer, she glanced down at his lap and slapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed beyond belief. He was still hard – really hard; the head of his cock was bright red and she could almost feel the heat of it. Her eyes jumped to his and she was surprised at the resignation she saw there, along with the discomfort. 'You didn't come. You were goin' to go off and leave and you didn't even come? Why didn't you say somethin'?'

 

She followed the short rant with a proper Tyler smack to his arm.

 

He winced and rubbed at it absent-mindedly. 'Well, you were having such a good time I, um, I didn't want to interrupt.'

 

'I thought you'd finished – we were at it for ages,' she told him, a bit defensive. Jimmy'd never waited for her. She'd become quite good at getting off quickly – her ex could be timed by how long it took for a kettle to boil, once they got going. She huffed out a breath, wondering if she'd made a fool of herself in front of him. Waving at his lap, she said: 'I could help you out, if you want. Least I could do.'

 

John paused, his eyes darkening further as they focused on her mouth. His breathing stopped entirely. Rose expected him to kiss her again, but instead he licked his lips and shook his head, glancing at her as if he couldn't fully believe she was there, offering. 'Oh Rose, no. That would be, er, lovely. But, um.' His ears went pink again, like they did in the cafe. It was just as delightful to her now as it was then, even if she was half-dead from embarrassment. 'I was rather hoping to, um, havesexwithyouagain sort of properly, this time, if that's OK?'

 

She blinked and spent a moment deciphering what he said. 'Oh. No, of course, that's fine!' A laugh bubbled out of her, relieved she hadn't ruined the evening. She couldn't help fishing for reassurance. 'You really want to?'

 

'Yes,' he replied immediately, hanging his head. 'And you want to, too?'

 

'Yeah. Absolutely,' her reply was said equally fast, and they shared stupid, pleased smiles. _This can't be what a one-night-stand is usually like. The blokes Shareen's into would never blush or mumble. And Shareen probably wouldn't be looking at her shag all dreamy-eyed 'cause he wanted to have another round. Get it together, Tyler._

 

'Right then!' John clapped his hands together eagerly, startling her out of her thoughts. He spun himself around on the bed so he was kneeling at her side. 'How are you feeling?'

 

Rose considered the question, rubbing her thighs together a little to get an idea of her sensitivity. She was buzzing a bit still, and gorgeously languid, but the idea of sex didn't make her wince from pain. 'I think I'm good,' she told him, surprised at the huskiness of her voice.

 

A slow grin spread across his face and he moved himself between her legs. 'I think you're good, too.' If her voice had been husky, his was dark and gravelly; the sound sent shivers down her spine, the tone full of promise. 'Now, I'm actually rather brilliant at all this – the, um, shagging I suppose you'd call it,' Rose laughed again both at his arrogance and his bumbling over the terminology, 'and I suspect you haven't been with someone brilliant before – if you don't mind me saying - so do you mind terribly if I take the lead?'

 

She shook her head, rolling her eyes. John looked at her, expression caught between cocky – not bad for a skinny bloke wearing nothing but a hard-on – and something so dear and tender that her heart tightened in response. Rose's thoughts went back to the friend he'd mentioned earlier, the one she reminded him of. She felt a slight itch – disappointment, maybe, or discomfort – when she realised that she was probably not the intended recipient of all his soft words and gentle caresses. With a bit of willpower she forced herself to mentally shrug it off, though a part of her still stung, just a bit. John was lovely, and she was here, and whoever his friend was, she was missing out.

 

John, completely oblivious to her internal debate, stuck his tongue between his teeth, deep in concentration. He kept flicking his gaze between where she lay on the bed (drifting, occasionally, down to her breasts, her stomach and between her legs. He was, after all, a man) and the pillows propping her up. Without warning he took a particularly large cushion out from behind her, making her fall back on to the mattress with a muffled “ _oof”_. She tossed him an irritated glance, which he missed entirely. He was so focused on his task that Rose could almost picture him with glasses perched on his nose. Thick framed, she decided, and rectangular. She imagined him hunched over some piece of technology or other, looking over his shoulder as he explained to her just what each thingie-bob and whatsit did. Distracted as she was, she didn't notice John grasping both her knees and hoisting up her legs, making her squawk in protest. He shoved a pillow under her backside, raising her whole lower body toward the ceiling.

 

As intent as ever, he surveyed his work, a hand rubbing at his chin. 'Mm, yes. I think that's just about the right angle. I mean, without a protractor it's always going to be guesswork.'

 

Rose lifted herself up on her elbows, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. 'Are you sure all this... _engineerin'..._ isn't ruining the mood?' She felt decidedly unsexy, being shifted about like furniture.

 

'Oh no,' he purred, suddenly swapping out the lecturing tone something far more sultry.

 

He slid his body across hers, pressing her down against the mattress again, the skin-on-skin contact making her shiver and completely forget her complaint. John braced himself over her frame, arms holding him up either side of her head, a smirk lingering at the corners of his lips. He held her gaze for a moment – _God, those eyes!_ \- then brought his mouth down to kiss her throat, her collarbone, the tops of her shoulders.

 

'You see, all this _engineerin'_ , as you so delightfully put it, is part of what makes me very,' his fingers trailed down her chest, tripping over her left breast, 'very,' she arched into the hot wetness of his mouth as it swallowed her nipple, 'good.' The last word was breathed out, the air cooling her slick skin, causing it to pucker to almost-painful hardness.

 

'Oh,' she managed.

 

'Oh indeed,' he replied before kissing her again, not fiercely, or hungrily, but thoroughly – a patient, full kiss that swept away all of her previous concerns. _He could kiss for England._ John's hand drifted lower, seeking – then finding – her folds, still slick from their earlier activities. He traced over the lips, dipping inside briefly, teasingly, then out again. She furrowed her brow, unsure of what he was doing – it was nice, but not what she expected - until he brought his hand up to his mouth and sucked his fingers. Their eyes met, and a wave of goosebumps prickled over her at the heat she saw there. Still watching her, he licked away her moisture, making sure he caught it all, then he licked his lips.

 

His voice was just slightly hoarse as he said: 'New plan.'

 

John scuttled backwards until he was kneeling in front of her again, then, with gentle pressure, he parted her legs. Rose was still so stunned from him tasting her that it came as a shock when she felt his tongue slide across her inner thigh; she jumped and nearly closed her legs on his head in her surprise. He popped back up again, contrite. 'Sorry about that. Should have asked. Is this all right?'

 

Rose wanted to laugh again, but he had one hand holding her thigh tightly, and the other was scrunching at his hair. Despite his protestations of being “brilliant”, he was still nervous. 'Yeah, 'course it is.' John beamed and ducked down again. She reclined back, staring resolutely at the ceiling – _God, I've still got those glow-in-the-dark stars up there from when I was eight –_ and cleared her throat before adding: 'I just, well, no one's ever done that before. To me.' _It's possible to die of embarrassment, right?_

 

'What?' He cried, his head once more popping up from between her legs. He rested an arm casually on her bent knee, face screwed up, incredulous. 'Never? Oh, in that case, Rose Tyler, you are in for a real treat.'

 

With that, he returned to his task. He traced impertinent symbols on the tops of her thighs, round shapes it felt like, some unknowable writing he drew with his tongue on her skin. One of his hands rested on her stomach, fingers splayed and spanning the width of her belly – it was a warm, heavy weight, and, as he worked, the fingers curved against her skin; the thoughtless caress of his thumb against her navel made her smile, as if he couldn't bear not to touch her, even when so intently focused. John's other hand held her left leg securely, keeping it away from his head and giving him space.

 

His tongue left wet trails in its path across her thigh – first hot, then cold as the air hit it – and his breath blew softly on her folds, new and exciting and delicious. She'd been honest: no one had ever done this before. Never Jimmy, obviously, and the one time she and Mickey had given sex a go they'd been too nervous to try anything fancy. A part of her was still very anxious about having a stranger – was he a stranger, after they sort of shagged? - so close to such an intimate part of her, but John made her feel safe. _So_ safe, as if he could protect her from anything. And from the tight hold he had on her leg, and the occasional moan in the back of his throat, she suspected he quite enjoyed this.

 

Having finished with her thighs, he drew her closer to his mouth, allowing him to sweep his tongue slowly across her, moving in a long stroke from her entrance to her clit. Rose expelled a startled breath at the contact, not quite knowing how to handle the sudden burst of sensation – warm, wet, completely unlike anything else – that sparked from where his tongue touched and seemed to seep deep inside her. John repeated the motion, surer now, and she was able to anticipate when he reached the top; she relaxed, surprised that she'd tensed in the first place. She could almost feel his grin. He began to lick her in a continuous motion, not waiting for her reaction, just moving up and down along her sensitive flesh. Each time he made his way to the top he swirled his tongue around her clit, slowly building her up. The steadiness of the rhythm was perfect, enough to build her climax, but never jarring, never taking her out of her pleasure.

 

She'd never felt like this, like there was a pool of warmth between her hips, spreading out to her belly and along her limbs. Her hand moved from the sheets to gently rest on his head, smoothing his wild hair and anchoring her – without it, she'd feel alone, adrift in sensation.

 

He growled something she could not hear and then the hand from her stomach was caressing down her hip to join his tongue; she had a moment of clarity – _he's going to –_ and then he was, pressing one finger into her entrance, slowly moving into her as he focused on her clit. She arched off the mattress, bound to the bed by his other hand, and she panted from the overwhelming feel of his tricky tongue dancing and his elegant finger deep inside her, curling. The way he touched her inside was different from before, a richer, deeper feeling that ran parallel to the golden warmth she'd grown used to. John slowed down slightly, letting her adjust – how did he know to do that? - and then, just as she thought it wasn't enough any more, he added a second finger and his tongue pressed harder. Blood rushed in her ears, she held her breath; her hips were rising to meet his hand as he thrust into her, and then she was exploding; a wave of pleasure washed over her, starting where John's fingers and mouth worked then flowing through the rest of her body, spinning out into her limbs and fingertips and toes. 

 

Distantly, she felt John slow, then stop, then carefully withdraw, but her eyes were shut tight and all she could do was suck air into her burning lungs.

 

Some minutes later – she had no idea how long she basked in the afterglow – she realised John was holding her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. Rose looked up at him, shy again. 'That was –'

 

'Fantastic,' he finished, completely earnest. 'Really, that was one of the best thing I've ever seen. Thank you.'

 

She gaped at him. 'Thank _you_.' Arching an eyebrow, she asked: 'So, you've seen a lot of good stuff, then?'

 

He grinned. 'You have no idea.'

 

John brushed back her hair, the action unselfconsciously tender. Rose leant into the contact and he happily repeated it. She wondered if this was something he had done with _her_ , or if this whole evening had been wish-fulfilment. The suddenness of her jealousy hit her so solidly in the chest she had to bury her head in John's shoulder to stop him wondering what was wrong – otherwise he'd have noticed the way her eyes went wide, and how it felt like all the blood drained from her face. He continued to stroke her hair and she let it soothe her. _This is ridiculous. He's nice enough, but he's not your boyfriend. He's someone who came home with you for a shag._

 

As if he could read her mind, John lowered his head so he could ask, quietly, in her ear: 'How are your, um, bits?'

 

Rose snorted despite herself. The man had stuck his tongue in her, given her the best orgasm she'd ever had, and he couldn't even say “vagina” or “clitoris”. He'd probably die spluttering if he tried to say “cunt”. 'They're all right. All present an' accounted for. Probably need a few more minutes, though.'

 

John chuckled and she leant up to kiss him softly on the mouth. 'Since you're so lamentably out of action, would you mind,' he began, briefly touching her nose with the tip of his, 'if I explored a bit?'

 

'What, you mean the flat? There's not much; we're only on a council estate.'

 

He was clearly trying to suppress his laughter. 'I was referring to your body, which, as we have previously discussed, is lovely _and_ aesthetically pleasing, and there are all these _places_ ,' John enthused, rolling so he hovered over her again. 'You've got wonderful places, Rose.'

 

Rose gave him a look. 'How are you still even able to think? You said you've been hard since the cafe.'

 

John waved away the question, to Rose's exasperation – it had been a good question, she thought. 'Never mind that. Have you _seen_ your elbows?'

 

'Are they as good as my knees?'

 

He weighed up the comparison, taking her left elbow and trailing his fingers up and down her arm. 'No, you're right. Knees are better. But these elbows are no slouches, I can tell you that.'

 

'Good. Wouldn't want slouchy elbows.'

 

John chose to ignore her, which was probably for the best. He peppered kisses across her stomach and hips, making sure to press a kiss into each of her hipbones in turn. Her shins, ankles and feet were examined by his hands, caressed and stroked thoroughly before he lowered his mouth to lick and kiss and bite softly at her skin. He discovered how ticklish her instep was, and muttered an apology before sucking at a toe. Rose surprised herself by moaning; John wriggled his eyebrows but wisely kept silent. He moved back up her legs, over her stomach and breasts. It felt like he was cataloguing her, taking in every angle of her body, every texture. She'd never felt so thoroughly _admired_ before.

 

His eyes were narrowed, now, in concentration. Rose looked down, watching as he drew his nose across her body, his mouth whispering something into her skin. It was subtle, but she thought she could feel the slight puffs of air that separated one word from another; the words themselves were a secret between his lips and her flesh. He noticed her rapt attention and pressed a kiss against her stomach, right below her navel, before looking at her with such an earnest, loving expression that for a second she believed it was for her.

 

'What was that? What you were sayin'?' she asked, clarifying before he could interrupt and ask himself.

 

He looked almost as if he was about to blush but thought better of it. 'I,' he began, shifting backwards to give himself more room, 'was measuring the distance between your collarbone,' his index finger tapped her there, lightly, 'and your belly button – which is, I have to say, one of the finest belly buttons I've _ever_ met.'

 

Rose laughed, breathlessly. _Every_ part of her turned out to be the best one he'd ever seen, or met, or touched. 'Thank you, I think. But why were you measurin'?'

 

He rolled his eyes, an indulgent smile on his face. 'Because I didn't do it before.' She was rather impressed he'd managed to convey the silent “obviously”. John shook himself, becoming businesslike again. 'Turn over.'

 

Once she was on her front, resting her head on her folded arms, John began massaging her back in long, languid strokes. He started on her shoulders, working out the tension there. It was tension she'd held for the last month or so of being with Jimmy, the worry and not enough money and pressing weight of fear making her tightly wound. John had marvellous hands, always the right temperature, and now they were cool and soothing as they firmly caressed down the smooth slope of her back. When he reached the dip above her bum he unravelled the knots he found there with his thumbs, digging in harder than before. Rose gave up all sense of dignity, encouraging him with soft moans and murmured words, turning into a puddle of relaxation. Once he'd sorted out the stiffness of her muscles, he touched her lightly as a feather, using only his fingertips to skim along her skin. They followed the curve of her bum, and Rose was not at all surprised to find him plant a kiss on either cheek. 

 

When his teeth nipped at her, she twisted around and said: 'Oi, did you just bite my bum?'

 

He gave her a wide-eyed, innocent look. 'No. Of course not. Did you like it?'

 

She buried her head under her arms to stop herself from giggling at his face. 'I'm not food.' It was a rather weak complaint, really.

 

'Ah, but you _are_ edible, Rose. So, so edible.' He garnished this with a second nip to her bottom.

 

She wriggled away, definitely giggling now, trying to escape his ravenous mouth. John followed her the few centimetres she'd made across the bed and pretended to gnaw at her legs and arms and anything in his way. Rose flipped herself over and he immediately covered her, pinning her carefully to the mattress as he bit and sucked at her throat. The playfulness had turned, suddenly, into something far more arousing. She held him close, her fingers brushing through his hair – _it's really great hair, actually_ \- as John gave her what was likely to be a rather decent lovebite. When he drew away his mouth was wet and she could feel him hard against her thigh.

 

Rose licked her lips and shifted under him; he groaned very quietly, and she knew she'd grazed his cock with her cheeky motion. 'I think I'm ready,' she told him. 'Are you?'

 

'Oh, I am ready,' he promised. 'I've been ready for _years_.'


	7. Chapter 7

If he'd nearly died from the disappointment of their first foray into sex, the subsequent intimacy she'd given him would have been enough to resurrect him as thoroughly as Jack on Satellite Five. He'd brought her to climax twice – _twice_ – and had run his fingers over every inch of her skin, memorising her reactions and sounds for when this night had to end.

 

It was hard, though, seeing this Rose, who was so open and guileless; it made his hearts hurt knowing that he had helped her soften from the brittle facade of earlier. It made him sick, knowing that she would harden in the future from being with – and later losing – him.

 

When he'd explored her body he had seen the differences between this Rose and the one he'd leave hand-in-hand with his clone, just like he'd noticed the differences in her room. He'd tasted the different hormone levels in her sweat and seen the absence of scars, ones she would receive during their travels. There was this one on her chin that he loved – and hated, of course, for marring her perfect skin – and he only ever saw it when she was determined and staring him down. She'd cut herself tripping over on the way back to the TARDIS, escaping some villagers with torches and pitchforks, and she'd been laughing and wincing as he stitched her back together in the med bay. She'd teased him for looking so solemn (his face had felt like it had been made of stone) and he'd just shaken his head, unable to tear his eyes away from the touch of blood on the collar of her shirt.

 

 _This_ Rose was waiting for him now, desire evident in her hooded eyes and the small pants of breath that escaped her mouth. The Doctor had adjusted her on the bed again, making sure the angle was just as he'd worked out earlier, and Rose had taken another condom packet, torn it with her teeth (and he was so glad she'd done that without him asking, because he was rather embarrassed by how strongly he reacted the first time) and rolled it down on to his cock. He kissed her because he could, and to thank her for knowing what he liked, and for being his bold, wonderful Rose.

 

Everything around him seemed to go still, time slowed – literally, or rather, relatively as it were; his _interpretation_ of time slowed, another part of Time Lord arousal, and he watched avidly as Rose's eyelashes fluttered across the curve of her cheek, watched as she drew her lip between her teeth and a line appeared between her brows, concentration and pleasure writ in every millimetre of her face. In this position, with the control entirely in his hands, he could enter her perfectly – it was smooth and just deep enough to make them both groan, and then time flooded back into the room and Rose had flung her head back against the remaining pillows, revealing the pale column of her neck. 

 

She felt amazing around him, hotter and wetter than before, and he could feel just how turned on she was by the spasms of her sex around his cock. 'Oh, Rose,' he said, just to say it. Just to have an affirmation on his tongue. He caught the golden thread of a timeline and dipped his head to lick her throat as he drew back and plunged into her again; Rose's hands clutched at his shoulders and she lifted her legs to wrap around his waist, the words spilling out of her mouth a stream of encouragement and enticement and threats that almost made him laugh.

 

She wanted fast, was urging him to “ _just fuck me_ ”, but he shook his head, unable to help himself from chuckling, this time, at her irritated look. He kept his rhythm relaxed, unhurried. Even making love to her slowly and carefully made the bed shake on its cheap, metal frame. It hit the wall behind the headboard, and the Doctor found himself focusing on the beat, counting the seconds between the dull thumps and counting the seconds between when he was inside Rose and when he was apart from her. Every time he entered her it was like coming home; he never wanted to leave the warmth, the sense of safety and love that filled his being. He wanted to stay buried in her forever, with her tight around him and her arms holding him close so their bodies pressed everywhere. _How many times has the meta-crisis me made love to Rose? Does she still swear on every thrust, or does she say “I love you” into his shoulder instead?_

 

His mouth twisted at his thoughts, and he tried to focus on the Rose beneath him, who was lifting her hips to meet his. He could anticipate her movements, now, and adjusted his angle accordingly; rather than throwing off his rhythm, it preserved it, and preserved the slow, lazy spiral upwards he wanted for her. When he swivelled instead of thrust she tossed her head on the pillow, helplessly caught in the sensations he was creating. He felt so very powerful, making her sigh and curse, driving her closer towards orgasm but not letting her fall; _this_ was what he wanted when he said “yes” to coming home with her; _this_ is what he wanted every day for the rest of his very, very long life, but was never going to have again. Just once, then the opportunity – it's gone, it's finished, like a snowy Cardiff Christmas for anyone else.

 

She cupped the back of his neck with her hand and drew him down for a messy, distracted kiss. He moaned into her mouth. It was more the glancing of lips against each other than a careful dance, but it was _Rose_ and her wrist was holding him down, her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp in a way that sent shivers down his spine. He loved it – loved that he had a whole collection of kisses with Rose, to the point where he didn't mind that this one was sloppy and half-hearted. And, though it was less than perfect, the way her breath ghosted across his mouth and cheek when she finally let him go and they parted, was a surprising spike of pleasure that went directly to his cock, setting him, suddenly, on an inexorable path to orgasm. The Doctor squeezed his eyes shut, groaning as he felt his restraint slip; the hardened points of Rose's nipples brushed against his chest with every movement they made, and the contact was, now, far too much.

 

Taking a shuddering breath, he lifted himself up off her body, supporting his weight with one hand. He needed to regain control: his teasing rhythm had kept Rose just within sight of climax without ever pushing her over. She looked at him, and he smiled, adoring the way her hair was a mess on the pillow and how she managed to raise an eyebrow in question, despite the fact he was moving inside her, shagging her breathless. 

 

The smile turned into a smirk as he lowered his mouth to her ear, making sure his lips brushed against the delicate shell. 'Rose,' he said, knowing his voice was as dark and as smooth as the space between stars, 'do you want to come?'

 

Her breathing hitched, making her groan come out choked from lack of air; she clenched tight around his cock, getting her own back by making him falter for a moment in his timing. He wished he had more time to discover all the ways in which to arouse Rose Tyler – and he was sure that talking dirty was one of them – but he could feel warm ribbons wrapping around the base of his spine, growing hotter with every second that passed. _This is too good. I can't have this be the last time. I need her._ With his mouth sucking on her earlobe, he slid his hand along her body, cupping a breast, circling a nipple, smoothing over her stomach before reaching where they joined. 

 

'Yes,' Rose muttered, and he could feel the tension shaking in her thighs as they pressed against his hips, 'please.'

 

'Well, that certainly was polite,' he said breathlessly, stupidly, attempting to cover the surge of lust he felt at hearing her beg.

 

He waited for a moment, making sure he had the beat right, and then he brushed his thumb over her clit at he same time he entered her again. She arched at the sensation, her ankles locking behind his back and drawing him back down toward her, crushing his hand between them as their bodies collided. Rose was close – _so_ close, he could feel her toes curling – and so was he, and the next few moments were a blur as he picked up the pace, pounding into her now as much as the angle would allow, his thumb dancing across her clit in the same rhythm as his cock moved in and out of her. He was climbing higher, the pressure building and licks of pleasure curling, and then Rose cried out - “ _Doctor!_ ” - and he had only a moment to be surprised before he was falling, tumbling after her; he burned, combusted; he saw stars – literally stars, he could name them – before he was floating back down to Earth, nothing but ash and stardust. Somewhere, far away, he could hear his voice saying her name over and over again, broken and caught in his teeth.

 

-.-.-

 

It took Rose some minutes to catch her breath. 'Wow.'

 

John was carefully bracing his weight off her, making sure she wasn't crushed beneath him; for someone so skinny, he was _solid_. Watching him from under her lashes, she saw that he seemed dazed, his eyes dark and unfocused. Lust shot through her from seeing him like that, some ancient feminine pride in having caused him to unravel. _Way better than just making him blush._ His cheeks had two, matching, spots of pink, and his fringe was matted down with sweat, but there appeared to be no other signs that he had been affected, physically, by their very vigorous round of lovemaking – much to Rose's annoyance. Her heart was beating furiously, and she felt like she'd never walk again, not with her jelly legs and trembling thighs.

 

Her hands were still clutching at his back and so she finally moved them, smoothing her palms over his shoulders and down his arms, feeling the tense, hard muscles. John started as she caressed him; he blinked and looked down at her. Slowly, the most brilliant smile spread across his face, exaggerating the creases around his eyes and making a dimple appear in his left cheek. It was probably the best smile she'd ever seen: it warmed her, all the way to her toes.

 

There was a bit of business, then, unavoidable and awkward: John carefully withdrew from her body, with her wincing in discomfort; Rose offered him the box of tissues from the bedside table and they made a whispered decision to leave the condom wrapped in a wad of them for later. It was embarrassing, but not as much as she'd thought it would be – the whole situation was made much better by the fact John kept glancing over at her, still grinning away, giddily. Once they'd cleaned up to some extent, they fell back into the bed with her head on his chest.

 

John nosed at her hair. 'Rose,' he said, softly, excitedly, 'we had sex.'

 

She laughed at the wonder in his voice, then laughed harder when she looked up and saw his mock-insulted expression. 'Yeah. Noticed that, thanks. Was sort of the whole point. You know, of askin' you home?'

 

John let his eyes widen, his eyebrows reaching up to his hairline. 'You saucy thing! Had it planned all along, didn't you?' Not waiting for a reply, he kissed her neck and made a contended noise, his lips vibrating against her skin. She wriggled in his arms, the sensation ticklish, and he did it again, humming his way down the column of her throat until she was giggling and breathless.

 

'Oh, Rose,' John sighed into her clavicle. She looked down, peering at his face, half-obscured by the fall of his hair; it was completely unreadable – the closest thing Rose could liken it to was “calculating”, but it wasn't as shrewd as that, or as cold. 'I should go,' he said.

 

It was slow and uncertain, as if he was testing how it sounded. As if he wanted to be discouraged. She was more than happy to convince him; the desire to spend the rest of the night with him was there, almost as strong as her attraction to him. She wanted to see John with bed hair, a slow, sleepy smile on his face. They could have tea and toast and maybe she could invite him out for a proper meal, something more than chips. It wasn't that she was looking for a boyfriend – especially nothing serious, not after Jimmy – but it was more that John was so _different_ ; she wanted to get to know him better, and she could only do that by hanging on to him.

 

Rose wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead against his. 'No,' Rose said, shaking her head gently so as not to dislodge him. 'Don't. Stay.'

 

'It's better if I go now,' he told her gently. His eyes did not quite meet hers, despite how close they were. 'I'm very bad at saying good bye.'

 

Rose shrugged a bit, a wry smile on her face – she remembered that he'd been awful outside the cafe, folding quickly at her insistence. Her leg hooked around his, preventing him from moving. 'You _are_ useless at them. And you're gonna be just as rubbish tomorrow morning, so we might as well have a few hours sleep before then, yeah?'

 

'It's not as easy as that,' John complained, and she could feel the tension in his shoulders. It was an uncomfortable position they were in, with him leaning over her, and their limbs entangled, but Rose felt like he might bolt at any moment, dashing out of her bedroom with his trousers undone and a shoe missing. 'I _want_...'

 

Lowering her voice, Rose asked: 'What _do_ you want, John?'

 

For a second, his face was overcome with the dark expression she remembered from the taxi, and from when he was making love to her so intently – then, it flickered, and his face fell. 'It doesn't matter what I want. That's not... it's not what happens.' He reached up and carefully removed her hands, entwined behind his neck. Then, he shifted back so there was some space between them. John cleared his throat and said: 'Rose... do you remember saying anything strange. Just before?'

 

Confused by the change of subject, it took her a moment to understand his meaning; when she did, she grinned at him, cheekily. 'Oh, when we were shagging, you mean?'

 

As soon as the words left her mouth, Rose realised what she said – and what he _meant –_ she went cold with mortification. _Oh no! Not that! Fuck fuck fuck!_ The sex had been amazing; glorious; mind blowing – possibly closer to literally than she'd like, if her brain had crossed connections and she'd said something stupid and unforgivable during climax. Rose inwardly sighed. It would just be like her to muck it up by saying another man's name in the heat of the moment. _John might be completely unlike anyone else I've ever met, but I bet he's just the same when it comes to that. No wonder he wants to bolt._

 

Glad for the space John had created, Rose inched away herself, plucking at the sheet to cover up her body. 'God, I'm sorry,' she moaned, covering her face with her hands. 'Did I – I didn't, did I? Call you someone else's name?' Hunching over, she hugged her knees; perhaps, if she made herself as small as she could, the universe would take pity on her and blink her out of existence. 'I'm really sorry. Jimmy was my ex – the one who – I only just left him, you know?'

 

Strangely, John didn't seem offended by her babbling; in fact, he seemed to relax. There was a tightness at the corner of his mouth, though, one that hadn't been there before. 'You didn't say “Jimmy”,' he told her, reassuringly, and she smiled in relief. 'Must have been some gibberish, then.' There was a note of pride in his voice, but it soon turned to regret as he said: 'I need to go, Rose.'

 

'Please?' She asked, very quietly, not daring to look up. It was so _clingy_ , she knew that. It wasn't what Shareen would do with her one night stands. It was what a teenage girl would do, and _damn it_ she felt terribly young around him. Awkward and unsure, and it was only made worse by the fact he was so familiar with her, treating her like an old friend. She couldn't help wanting him beside her, though: her entire body seemed to buzz and itch with how desperate she was to keep him through 'til morning. 'Stay?'

 

Rose felt his lips on her forehead, then the heavy breath he exhaled. 'Rose Tyler. I never could say no to you.'

 

-.-.-

 

The Doctor indulged himself by spooning Rose. He bent his knees until they pressed against her bum, his hand rested lightly on her hip and he hid his face in her hair, right where her shoulder met her neck. She'd brought the thin quilt over the top of them, tucking it around the edges until they had a cocoon of blankets and sheets and body heat. It was peaceful and lovely, and she was soon drifting off to sleep.

 

For an hour he watched her, closely, timing the wait between breaths and laying his palm flat on her back to feel the beat of her heart, made faint as it passed through skin and bone and muscle. She was amazing; perfect in the way only humans could be with their flaws and endless compassion and the brightness of their lives, fierce and fleeting. He counted the moles and freckles on her skin, naming them after planets they'd visited and stars that had shone down on them.

 

When he was sure she was fast asleep, sprawled out on the middle of the blanket with her face pushed into the pillow, he carefully disentangled himself. Crouched on the end of the bed, his trousers in his hand, he nearly caved, nearly slid back under the covers and moulded his body to hers, proving the perfect fit of arms and legs and thighs and hips. He could feel the fluttering of time lines, the concerned hum of the TARDIS reaching out to him, even here, and he shoved his trousers on before he changed his mind.

 

Once dressed again, he sunk to the floor beside Rose's bed. The Doctor allowed himself a brush of his lips against hers before he put his fingers to her temples and entered her mind.

 

He was gentle, delicate; blurring, never erasing. But no matter how whisper-soft his telepathy was the Doctor still felt sick with disgust. _This_ was taking advantage, far more than going home with her. _This_ was something she'd likely never forgive him for, and it didn't make it better that Rose would never know. He danced along the edges of her memories of the evening, cautious, careful, only reaching further in when he saw a turn of phrase too familiar, or a nervous tic she'd notice when he regenerated. Like pulling a splinter out of a wound, he removed her calling out “Doctor” - a backwards ripple, he'd surmised, like his clone's heartbeat ringing in Donna's ears. He was complicated, more than complicated, and so dreadfully important to Rose Tyler's future that his assumed name might always have been there, ready, on the tip of her tongue.

 

He smoothed the harsh insecurity where he could, stitching through a thread of assurance that undercut the times she worried about “John” enjoying himself; he wouldn't be there when she woke up, and he knew that Rose would question why he couldn't stay, possibly ( _probably_ ) blaming herself.

 

With one last caress of her synapses – and a suggestion that she fall deeper into sleep – the Doctor withdrew from her mind and broke contact. Rose's brows were furrowed but as soon as he removed his hands from her face they smoothed, and she tried to burrow further into the pillow beneath her.

 

He let out a breath, knowing he had to leave, he had to go _now_ because every minute he remained made his resolve erode just that tiniest bit more, and he was already so close to the edge. All he needed to do was wake her up, tell her he could take her to places she'd never even heard of – _by the way, did I mention it also travels in time?_ \- and she'd be his again.

 

It wouldn't be difficult. Rose was so adventurous, even now. And she didn't have Mickey hanging off her, and she was still in Jackie's bad books. She'd jump at the chance, he just knew it. It didn't have to change anything, either. They could go half-way round the universe and back before it interfered with events – and even if it did, who was there to stop him? No one. It was just him – alone, as always.

 

The time lines were weak, _trembling_ with tension as he reached towards her shoulder, ready to shake her out of her slumber. Then, he heard it. A gun shot, clear and sharp, punctuating the silence of the bedroom. Ringing as loudly in his head as it had when he heard it the first time, standing outside Adelaide Brooke's house. A reminder. _A warning?_

 

The Doctor froze, hand hovering over the smooth skin of Rose's arm. Realisation crashed over him, drowning him, making his breath short and his lungs ache, chest constricting tightly. He let his wavering arm fall to his side and bowed his head, ashamed and tired and so very frightened of what he had nearly become. _Had become?_

 

Rose slept on, blissfully unaware of the universe-destroying thoughts running through his head only moments previously. She kicked out a leg so her foot escaped the confines of the sheet, her innocent toes painted bubble-gum pink. He could remember watching her, dozens of times, as she'd propped her foot on the side of a couch, hunching over to carefully stroke on the nail polish (which invariably dripped on to expensive leather, leaving behind guilty pink drops as evidence that she existed). The idea of stealing those memories from himself – and stealing her future – was enough to, at last, drag him away from temptation.

 

The Doctor wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt and adjusted the bed clothes so even Rose's most troublesome limbs were covered.

 

It was time to go. There was only one way he knew to make this the last time he ever saw her, to mark the evening with finality; to make it so painful for him that he'd rather regenerate than even consider it an option. He lowered his mouth to her right ear, the soft threads of her golden hair tickling at his lips. In a hushed, confessional whisper he said three words, then her name, telling her in them what she'd deserved to hear for so long, but he'd been unable – _unwilling_ – to say.

 

The Doctor smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes, brushed the lint off the knee of his trousers, and walked out the door. It would, and it wouldn't, be the first - or last – time that he walked away without saying good bye. It just depended on the perspective.


End file.
